The blinds were half-drawn, casting lazy slats of light across the polished floor. The low hum of the air conditioner pulsed like a secret. Sarah perched on the edge of Alhaji's sleek mahogany desk, legs crossed, her presence as calculated as her smile.
Her manicured fingers toyed with the collar of his suit, slowly undoing another button.
"So," she murmured, voice smooth and smoky, "now that we're partners, I think we should start building trust."
Alhaji leaned back in his chair, one hand sliding up her thigh. "Trust isn't free, Sarah."
"It never is," she whispered, lowering herself slowly onto his lap. "But I don't ask for free. I pay in information."
Her lips brushed his ear as her fingers slipped beneath his open shirt, trailing lightly across his chest. "I want more than just us, Alhaji. I want power. And you're going to give it to me."
Alhaji's breath hitched, his eyes darkening with hunger. He gripped her waist, drawing her flush against him. His hand slipped under the hem of her dress, fingers teasing the skin above her thigh. Sarah gasped softly, her head tipping back just as he claimed her lips with his.
She moaned into the kiss, trying to stifle it, but the sound slipped through anyway, fogging the air between them.
His voice dropped against her mouth."This office is soundproof… good thing, because I'm not done hearing those moans."
She smirked, biting his lower lip playfully.
And just then
The door slammed open.
No knock. No announcement. Just a loud, jarring burst of wood against the wall.
Alhaji froze. Sarah's body stiffened atop him as her head snapped toward the doorway.
Standing in the threshold, elegant and unshaken, was Jariatu Jalloh, his wife.
She didn't scream.
She didn't move.
She simply looked, cool and composed in her deep blue tailored suit, her silk scarf perfectly draped, her lips painted in war-red silence.
Though Sarah and Alhaji had scrambled to compose themselves, clothes adjusted, hair smoothed, the air reeked of what had just happened.
Sarah's flushed cheeks, the sheen of her lips, her arms wrapped tightly around herself… Jariatu saw it all.
Alhaji stood, his voice dry. "Jariatu… You're here."
She didn't blink. "Looks like it."
He walked toward her cautiously, smoothing his shirt. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"
"I thought I'd surprise you," she replied flatly. "Had I warned you, I wouldn't have… interrupted."
Her gaze shifted briefly to Sarah, pinning her like a fly under glass.
Alhaji tried to recover. "Let me introduce you, this is Sarah Cole. The one with the… informations."
"I see… she's a beauty," Jariatu said coolly, her voice edged with sarcasm that slid like silk over glass. Her gaze swept over Sarah without a flinch, taking in every detail, flushed cheeks, smudged lipstick, hair slightly undone. Evidence. Not of surprise, but confirmation.
The rumors had long reached her ears, but unlike the others, those forgettable leeches that clung to her husband for scraps, this one was different. Sarah didn't just want Alhaji. She wanted position. Power.
And that made her dangerous.
Alhaji cleared his throat, trying to regain control. "Sarah, meet my wife, Mrs. Jariatu Jalloh."
Sarah stepped forward, unbothered and even slightly amused. "It's very much a pleasure to meet you, ma'am," she said, extending her hand.
Jariatu took a moment, letting the air thicken between them before finally accepting. Her grip was precise, neither warm nor cold, but deliberate. A performance of civility.
Her eyes didn't just meet Sarah's, they searched her, scanning past the flawless skin and confident smile, straight into the calculative mind she knew lurked beneath.
And behind Jariatu's perfectly poised expression, one thing was clear:
This wasn't just a handshake. It was a declaration of war.
"So," Jariatu said, stepping around the desk to settle into her husband's chair, "I heard you were recently locked up. And now, here you are. Quite the bounce back."
"I got out," Sarah said, shrugging.
"How fortunate," Jariatu replied, crossing her legs. "And even more fortunate that your first stop was here."
"Well, I had to," Sarah said smoothly, arms folding beneath her chest. "Alhaji and I have some… unfinished business."
"Alhaji?" Jariatu repeated, her head tilting ever so slightly. "How familiar. You must be the first, and only, staff of his bold enough to address him that way."
Sarah smiled, deliberate and unbothered. "That might be because I'm not just staff. I'm special."
The room crackled with silent heat.
Jariatu let out a low chuckle, not from amusement, but restraint. Her fingers coiled tightly into her palm, hidden beneath the hem of her sleeve. But her face remained unreadable, cool and unmoved. She hadn't come to claw at a mistress. She came because the whispers in the corridors had a name this time. A face. A woman who thought she was something new.
How quaint.
"Good to hear that," Jariatu said calmly. She turned to her husband, her voice controlled, yet heavy with command.
"Baba, would you kindly have your 'special' guest leave?"
Alhaji hesitated, jaw clenching. But he knew better than to fight her tone, it was the same one she used in boardrooms, courtrooms, and when she sent men packing with nothing but their dignity in their hands.
He nodded stiffly. "Miss Cole… thank you for stopping by. But I believe it's time we wrap this up."
Sarah didn't flinch. Instead, she smiled even wider, brushing her fingers lightly down the front of his chest as she passed him, slow, suggestive, claiming.
"As you wish… Alhaji," she said sweetly, watching Jariatu from the corner of her eye.
She made her way toward the door, her heels clicking with defiant rhythm. Then she paused at the frame, casting one last glance over her shoulder.
"Oh, Alhaji," she called, eyes gleaming. "Don't forget our deal. I'll be clocking in tomorrow, as your special personal assistant."
Her lips curled, savoring the moment, and then she was gone, leaving behind the soft echo of her heels and a storm of unspoken war between husband and wife.
Jariatu sat still, her hand now calmly smoothing the fabric on her lap.
"She's dangerous," she said, not looking at him.
"No," Alhaji replied quietly. "She's worse than that. She's smart."
Jariatu's gaze hardened.
"Then I hope, for your sake, Baba… you're smarter."
The heavy doors slammed open.
Dija's footsteps echoed like thunder through the vast marble corridor, her heels striking the floor with fury. She stormed into the dining room where her mother, Kadiatu Cole, sat in tranquil elegance, her figure poised, her silk scarf pristine, and her attention solely on the meal before her.
The room was quiet, save for the delicate scrape of silver against porcelain. Kadiatu's manicured fingers guided the steak knife through the thick cut of filet as if nothing existed outside her plate.
Dija's voice cut through the stillness.
"You know, I really thought you'd changed." Her tone was tight, trembling. "But I was wrong."
Kadiatu said nothing, instead she lifted her fork, took a bite, and chewed with a satisfied hum.
"Conteh," she said softly, turning toward the private chef standing respectfully to the side, "this is lovely. Well done."
Conteh gave a slight bow, not daring to look up.
Dija blinked in disbelief. "Are you even listening? You ruined my life."
Kadiatu set her knife down gently, her eyes finally meeting her daughter's. Calm. Controlled. Icy.
"I did what any mother would do," she replied. "You begged to be with him. I did what I thought was best, I made a proposal."
"Don't twist it," Dija snapped, stepping closer. "You went there to destroy him. You knew exactly what you were doing. You didn't just go behind my back, you disrespected the people I love. You embarrassed his father in front of guests. You wanted to humiliate them."
Kadiatu sighed, her voice losing none of its serenity.
"Get over it, Dija. If they saw it as humiliation, then perhaps they weren't as proud as they claimed. Either way, he wasn't the right match."
Dija's eyes flared, fury rising like a tide.
"You're the world's worst mother," she seethed. "A selfish, arrogant, cruel woman who doesn't know how to love anyone but herself."
And then
The slap.
A sudden, sharp crack of skin meeting skin. Dija staggered back, her hand flying to her jaw. The room stilled. Even the air seemed to recoil.
Kadiatu stood now, trembling with rage. "How dare you!" she barked. "Do you know what I've sacrificed for you? What I've endured to build this life? You ungrateful girl, you stand here and shame me over some boy who can't even stand for himself?"
"His name is Thomas, and he did stand for me, until you broke him!" Dija shouted back, her voice raw, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You think you've given me everything, but what I needed… was a mother who understood me. Who saw me as a person, not a pawn."
The words cracked through the room, slicing deeper than the echo of her voice.
For years, Dija had worn the face her mother demanded, graceful, polished, obedient. She had walked the path paved in someone else's ambition: the perfect schools, the acceptable friends, the curated future laid out like a business plan. Her opinions were suggestions. Her dreams were dismissed. Her life… wasn't hers.
Since childhood, Kadiatu had choreographed every step, dictating everything from the clothes she wore to the courses she studied. And when Dija cried as a girl, it was never her mother who held her. It was the nannies, the house staff, the strangers hired to substitute the warmth she never got.
Wealth was never the problem. It was the loneliness wrapped in gold trimmings. The affection she craved buried beneath jewelry, silence, and high expectations.
She had learned to stay quiet. To please. To earn a nod from a woman who rarely looked at her long enough to see the cracks.
But Thomas… he had seen her.
He had listened, stayed, and stood for her.
And now, he was gone, crushed beneath the same iron fist that had ruled her entire life.
"You live under my roof," Kadiatu shot back, cold and commanding, her finger pointed like a gavel. "You'll abide by my rules. I don't want to hear that boy's name again. Tomorrow, I'll arrange a proper introduction, with a man fit to marry into this family."
Something in Dija stilled. Then cracked.
Because in that moment, she understood: her mother didn't want a daughter.
She wanted a legacy.
And Dija was done being anyone's blueprint.
"You're right," she said. "I do live under your roof. And that's exactly why I'm moving out."
Kadiatu blinked, stunned. The words hung between them like smoke.
"What did you say?"
"You heard me. I'm done. If you can't accept the man I love, then you don't get to keep me here."
The moment cracked like porcelain.
"Fine then. Let's see how long you last on your own," Kadiatu said, her voice flat, almost dismissive. "If you think life is easy… give it a try."
But even as the words left her lips, something inside her clenched.
She watched as Dija turned without hesitation and climbed the stairs, each footstep a thunderous reminder that the house was slipping into silence. Kadiatu stood rooted, spine straight, hands clasped tightly at her waist to still the shaking. The moment stretched long, empty, and merciless.
She wanted to call after her, just one word, one name.
But pride is a cruel god, and it sat heavy on her tongue.
Minutes passed before Dija reappeared, suitcase in hand, eyes dry but distant. She didn't speak. She didn't look back.
She walked past her mother like a stranger.
And Kadiatu did nothing to stop her.
But inside, something cracked wide open.
She had done this before. Years ago. Walked away from her own family in defiance. For love. For freedom. For a man who had whispered promises and left her carrying the weight alone.
She remembered the silence afterward. The cold. The shame she had never admitted to anyone.
And now, she was watching history repeat, only this time, it was her daughter walking away, and she was the one left standing in the doorway, powerless.
Her breath caught, but she exhaled slowly, calmly, as she always had.
To anyone watching, she was still the same regal, composed woman she had always been.
But behind her eyes, regret burned.
Not because her daughter had chosen love.
But because she had failed to show her that love could exist without sacrifice. That boundaries didn't have to come wrapped in barbed wire. That control was not care,and that fear, masked as protection, only ever pushes people away.
She remained there, unmoving, until the front door closed behind Dija, softly but definitively.
And in the silence that followed, Kadiatu did not cry.
She just stood there, alone in her mansion of marble and mirrors, whispering to no one:
"Don't make the same mistakes I did."
But it was already done.
Because staring back at her now, through Dija's anger, her tears, her defiance, was the ghost of her seventeen-year-old self. That same fire. That same foolishness. That same love-blinded courage.
Her delusional seventeen-year-old self, that foolish, love-drunk girl, had once crept out the window of her room, defied her parents, and leapt into the arms of a man she thought was worthy.
A man who spoke sweet promises in the dark and led her down a path of ruin.
A man who used her, then vanished.
And she, so proud, so certain, had been left crawling back, broken and ashamed, at the feet of the very parents she had cursed. But they never opened the door. Pride had shut it on both sides.
Now, as she watched her own daughter disappear into the world with the same blind belief in love, she didn't shout or chase or stop her.
She just stood there, aching quietly inside the shell of her strength, and prayed.
Truly prayed.
That Thomas wasn't like Abdul. That history wouldn't repeat itself with a crueler ending.
That Dija wouldn't one day walk through the same fire and be burned in the same silence.
Because betrayal like that didn't just bruise, it buried. And some wounds, even decades later, still bled beneath fine silk and diamond rings.
But more than anything…
She prayed that when Dija came back, if she came back, she would still know where home was.
Night had long folded over the city when Dija stood at the gate, her suitcase at her side and her heart pounding hard beneath her ribs. The compound was quiet, save for the low hum of a distant generator and the occasional bark of a dog.
She hesitated for a moment, staring at the familiar door she had once walked through with laughter and love. Now, it felt like another world.
Her finger hovered over the steel door, then knocked .
Soft echoes rang inside.
She heard footsteps, slow, cautious, and the door creaked open just a little. A sliver of warm light spilled across the ground, stopping at the tips of her shoes.
She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin.
And waited.
The door opened wider.
Her eyes met the shadowed figure standing behind it.
And just like that
The chapter ended.
Would she be welcomed?
Or turned away?
She didn't know.
She only knew she had nowhere else to go.